So, I'm Kinda Dating a Consulting Detective
by channelingadler
Summary: A series of short one-shots strung together as chapters of the adventures of Persephone Taylor and her on again/off again relationship with the World's Only Consulting Detective. Technically a follow up to "Skin Deep". Written in a "dear diary" format. Sherlock/OC
1. So, I'm Kinda Dating

**So, I'm Kinda Dating a Consulting Detective...**

_**A series of one-shots strung together as chapters of the adventures of Persephone Taylor and her on again/off again relationship with the World's Only Consulting Detective. **_

* * *

My name is Persephone Taylor, but everyone (including myself) calls me Posy. Well, almost everyone.*

I'm a little over 5 feet tall and have a few more jiggly bits than I'd like, but overall I'm a normal looking 27-year-old. I have very dark hair, it's practically black, but just yesterday I lightened the ends in this new "ombre" trend, and I have to say, I love it. I have very pale skin, but a lot of freckles in a lot of places. I dabble in a medley of creative things, but I guess I could say I'm a graphic designer since that title allows me to keep my house with some food on the table and liquor in the cabinet. I'm kind of a mess, all the time, but overall life has been pretty good to me. I like to think I'm quite intelligent but realistically I'm not winning any Nobel Peace Prizes.

My life got infinitely more interesting about 6 months ago. I was involved in this serial killer case and although that part was terrible, and I accidentally ended up sort of OD-ing on a brand new kind of drug, it was that one event in my life that changed it forever. I met the "World's Only Consulting Detective." His name is Sherlock Holmes and when he's not being a total arrogant ass, we're kind of dating.

I should include his friend (he would say 'colleague') Doctor John Watson. John is a pleasure, an absolute joy. He's kind and funny and simply adorable. John asked me out once and for some reason I decided to hold out for his tall, mysterious, handsome, and jerk-off flatmate. Did I mention my life's often a mess? It usually has to do with some stupid decision-making.

In case you didn't realize, as of right now, I am NOT involved with the detective. Trying to be in a relationship with him is...interesting. You've probably heard about him in the papers since as of late he's become quite famous. He's known for being a bit brash and rude, while also incredibly brilliant. Well, let's just say that it's a struggle to really get to see his softer side.

While we were involved in the case I guess some sparks were set off (I have heard that being in life-threatening situations can do that). I thought our relationship would end once the case was closed, but it was Sherlock who decided to keep this _thing_ going. In hindsight I should have declined, but in my defense, he brought ice cream.

After that things went on pretty much the same as always. It was not like a fairytale where I was swept off into the sunset and everything was happily-ever-after. It was more like he left, went on doing what he does, and texted me more often. Sometimes he'd summon me to his flat where I would sit on a chair as he laid on the couch, thinking. A couple times we even went out to dinner, and then I'd get dropped off at home as he went to experiment at Bart's or stake out a crime scene, or something.

The most relationship-y Sherlock has ever been is at night. He'll let himself into my house without notice and then just kind of sit with me watching telly or sometimes (these were my favorite) he'd come by after I was already asleep and just slip right into bed. Although kind of bizarre, it's always a pleasure waking up beside a sleeping Sherlock. To be honest, it's when he looks most human.

Some couples are really against PDA and honestly, I'm not very lovey-dovey myself, but it's impossible for others to even consider we're a couple. No hand holding (unless we're running around the city-chasing someone or something), definitely no kissing, no hugging, I don't even get affectionate glances. The straw that broke the camel's back, however, was last week, over dinner.

We had gone out with John and his current girlfriend, Mary, and someone named Stamford with his girlfriend (good Lord, I have no idea what her name was.) Well, it was a miracle Sherlock even agreed to go, but John and I insisted and I think promises were made. Once out, I got a bit excited that maybe we'd be a proper couple-smiling, laughing, the whole shebang.

Well, no. Sherlock, ever the social pariah, spent the entire evening texting on his mobile. John and Stamford poked fun at him, and I covered with the usual "You know how he is..." But then, Mary, who is really a very sweet girl, told Sherlock that he should spend more time paying attention to his lovely girlfriend.

Instead of ignoring her, or brushing her off as he usually does, Sherlock took the bait. "Persephone is not my _girlfriend_," he said matter-of-factly. Then he excused himself from the evening, dropping enough cash to cover HIS plate, and left.

Just. Like. That.

I've obviously complained to John enough and he suggested maybe talking to his therapist, or at least keeping a diary to keep things in perspective. This is what I'm doing now.

Dear Diary, I was dating Sherlock Holmes for 125 days. We decided to call it quits last week, and so it has been 6 days since I've been with him.

And, as angry as I am, I may be having withdrawals.

Shit, fuck, dammit.

_* Obviously, Sherlock can't just call me Posy. He only refers to me by my full name, Persephone. I would hate it if he didn't make it sound so freaking sexy._


	2. I (Always) Blame It On The Cheekbones

**Hey everyone who's started reading/following/favoriting/reviewing...THANKS! You are awesome and I really didn't know if this would go over well. It is, I will admit, super fun to write.**

**Please review. It's motivating and helps me know whether I'm on track or doing the right things. And obviously, I am quite sad, and keep refreshing my inbox in the hopes that someone dropped me a line.  
**

**lightsabove...you have been so kind to me, especially since Skin Deep, I just wanted to let you know I acknowledge and appreciate your lovely feedback!**

* * *

**Saturday**

It's been 14 days since I last had a tall drink of Sherlock. I kind of hate the fact that I'm even writing about this because he has gone on quite well and I'm still here fawning over him like I'm 14.

I (always) blame it on the cheekbones.

Well, after not knowing if he's been alive or dead for two weeks (I know he's alive because John blogs but STILL), I get a text out of the blue from the prat. So typical.

_Meet me for lunch. 14:00. SH_

Classic Sherlock: cool and aloof. What's really hilarious is that it's as if he's just picking up where he left off. Like, we didn't break up. If you can refer to people who didn't really date as breaking up. So, what then? Do I reply? Do I go to lunch? I know where he wants to meet, it's my favorite cafe, only minutes from my house. I check the clock and it is about a half-hour from rendezvous. Do I text him back? Do I meet him?

He always does this. He always puts me in a situation where I want to stand my ground but my curiosity gets the better of me. This actually may be a positive thing. I can meet him for lunch and we can hash everything out and when we've officially drawn lines in the sand I can go out tonight and meet Mr. Right, instead of Mr. Makes-Me-Crazy.

I'm going, but I'm not texting him. I'll let him sweat it out. Does Sherlock Holmes even sweat? I grab my favorite sweater, throw it on, and step out.

I take my time and get there at 14:10. He's already there, at my table with a coffee in front of him and a tall cup of something waiting for me. As I get closer I can smell it. It's a chai latte, my favorite. Damn him. Do you see how dysfunctional our relationship is? It's the same when we're not together as when we are together. Instead of showering me with flowers or candy, I either get ice cream or chai lattes. What is that?

I take a seat with a straight face and ignore my latte. Poor latte.

"You're late," he says to me. Have I mentioned how much I love his voice? It's strong and silky at the same time. It's like his voice is what you want your hair to be when you watch those shampoo commercials.

"I guess, what's up?" I am so cool and nonchalant.

"You're upset with me," he states. Not a question. Never a question.

"Doesn't matter if I am or not." I take the latte. I need to work on my willpower.

"If it's about the other night, I made a point to tell you I don't do relationships. I can't keep from making you upset if you don't understand."

I start to get angry. I have a bit of a temper. I take a sip from the latte instead of replying, hoping that it will keep me calm.

"Can't you just be..." he trails off because even he doesn't know how to finish the statement. The irony makes me smile: I'm not the only one who doesn't know what the hell this is.

"Sherlock, what you're asking is that I essentially be like John, or your skull. That I simply exist in a way that's convenient for you. I get that you're not emotional and that's fine. But, I am." I shrug at him like I'm perfectly OK and rational. Inside, I want to tear his eyes out.

He sighs like he's the one who's being tasked. "I am going away for some time. A week, maybe longer, for a case."

"OK, congratulations?" I resort to sarcasm. It's terrible and unflattering but I'm weak and want to yell at him while simultaneously drinking my chai.

He looks confused. "I thought you should know. In case you needed me."

_In case I needed him? I haven't heard from him in two weeks!_

"Sherlock, you know we're not together anymore, right?" I honestly am unsure if he knows. Maybe the last time we had this conversation he wasn't paying attention. You know, when I gave him back the key to 221B and said "I'm done." Maybe he was in his mind palace.

"You mentioned that, but I don't see why. When I return just tell me what you want and I'll try to make things better." He slides the key across the table. He truly believes this is settled, just like that.

I live in London but I was born in Portugal and my entire family is Portuguese. A word of the wise to those unfamiliar with Portuguese girls: don't make them angry.

"No, Sherlock." I slide the key back. "I was serious and this is closed. I care for you, but I can't be involved with someone without _being involved_ with someone. If you'd like to just be friends, that's fine, but I don't think we can keep trying to be anything more."

He looks perplexed, like I'm just some problem he hasn't figured out yet. He leaves the key on the table. Maybe he did think we were only friends and I just look like an idiot?

"We can discuss it when I come back," he reasons. I start to get frustrated and blurt out,

"I'm already seeing someone else."

As far as lies go, this is a huge one. And the problem with Sherlock is that he knows when you're lying. I put on my poker face.

"You're lying." Called it.

"Believe what you want. I have to go. Good luck on your trip." I get up, fish out a few pounds from my pocket and drop them on the table—an homage to his gesture when we were last out. I can tell by the look on his face that he's made the connection.

"You're lying," he says again, a bit softer as I turn to go. I simply shrug and walk out the door.

I am a bad person. Regardless of what transpired between us I really shouldn't dishonor the memory by ending things like this. But I'd be lying if I said the small amount of doubt in his voice didn't make me feel a bit better. At this moment, jealously is as good an emotion as any, and it's satisfying to think that he at least feels SOMETHING when he thinks of me.

I have become the type of woman I hate.


	3. Bad Habits New Habit

**So when I was writing **_**Skin Deep**_**, I had the entire story mapped out and every time I uploaded a chapter I had about a few more written as a safety net. **

**I am still working out this story. I do not have any other chapters written yet.**

**What does this mean? I can't guarantee when new chapters will be added because it's all still stuck in my mind palace (See what I did there? I don't really think I have a mind palace. More like a mind-shed.)**

**Let's all live on the edge and see where this goes, eh? And, obviously, a million thank you's and you're awesome's to you. You're the best.**

* * *

**Thursday**

"Wait, you never had sex?"

It's Thursday night, 19 days Sherlock single. I'm out with John Watson. He's a great drinking mate. He bought the last round, we're about 3 drinks (4? 5?) in and I'm feeling talkative.

"I don't want to talk about it," I shake my head dramatically. I've scanned this pub a million times trying to find someone that's suitable, but they're all _so_ not Sherlock.

"I'm not going to force you to say anything you don't want to, but I know I've heard you say you've slept together."

I'm laughing because this is ridiculous.

"We've literally _slept_ together, John. Nothing more. I mean, obviously snogging. You know, birthday, holidays..."

We're collapsing, we're laughing so hard. It feels good to be out and laughing and carefree. Sherlock is away, I have no idea where, but I am assuming out of the country. I feel brave knowing he's not around.

John's been telling me about Mary, how great she is. He sounds pretty smitten, he thinks it's serious. He apologizes about what happened that night we went out, he says Mary feels awful. She doesn't have to feel awful, she triggered the inevitable. I think I'll call her this weekend so she doesn't feel guilty.

I realize I'm not meeting anyone out tonight and I feel a bit bummed. By the end of the night the alcohol has me feeling emotional and disoriented. I should really drink less. John suggests I stay over Baker Street. I think it's the best idea I've heard all week.

By the time we get in the flat, the wallpaper smiley face is running laps around my head. I hug John goodnight and my feet take me through the familiar path to my favorite sheets.

I swing the door open and close it swiftly. I lock it. I kick off my shoes. I take off my nonessentials. I tear the elastic holding up my hair and throw it on the floor. I go to Sherlock's chair where he usually keeps his robe. It's not there. My mind understands that he must have taken it with him on his trip but my emotions are so frazzled by the events of the non-break-up and the extra shot of bourbon that I'm tipped over the edge and start crying. Not quite sobbing, but just a soft, frustrated cry. I really wanted that robe. It's quite pathetic. I sniffle to get myself under control and get into the bed.

In a rare moment of casual conversation Sherlock told me that Mrs. Hudson bought his sheets, but he definitely _owned_ them. They were crisp and soft and smelled like heaven. He must have just slept here because the scent is still strong and lingering. I roll over and let out a happy sigh when I realize why.

Sherlock Holmes is in his bed, awake, and staring at the drunk woman molesting his bedsheets. There's a chance I was moaning. I am mortified. My drunken mind produces a thought that he is not real, that he is simply a figment of my subconscious and so I reach out and plant my hand directly on his face. Not in a romantic way, more in a groping fashion. He's definitely real. He's still staring at me.

I recoil in horror, underestimate the amount of mattress behind me, and fall off the bed. I have watched romantic comedies that are less embarrassing than this. I want to die, and part of me thinks that if I lay still enough he'll just go back to sleep and I can sneak out. I lay there, on the floor of Sherlock Holmes' bedroom, mind spinning, and half naked. I feel him get off the bed. No, no, no, no, no.

He stands over me, in the blue robe. Shit.

"You're not supposed to be here," I manage to get out.

"Neither are you," he replies. Smarty McSmartpants.

He picks me up and puts me back on the bed and leaves. I know what he's going to get, we've had this exchange a few times before. The Sherlock Holmes midnight special. Burnt toast and strong coffee. He comes back, tray in hand, and I devour it. The toast is so awful it's best to just eat it all in one go. He's looking at me, he sniffs. "Bourbon? John."

I make to get up, thinking I need to get as far away from this room as possible, but he takes a hold of my wrist and pushes me down. He pulls something out of his robe and places it in my hand. It's the stupid key. I shake my head and am about to protest when he speaks first.

"You're not seeing someone else."

I want to laugh, definitely, and tell him he's wrong but I'm drunk and emotional so instead I open my mouth to scoff and instead gurgle into a cry. I'm always crying. What the hell is wrong with me? I have the emotional range of a newborn. If I'm either terribly happy or slightly sad, it's bloody waterworks.

Then, this happens.

Sherlock kisses me.

Not a usual Sherlock kiss either. Like a real, desperate, angry, passionate kiss. Like fireworks. It's so incredible I'm in shock and it takes me a few moments to register that this is happening and I'm not just having a dream and snogging my pillow. I kiss him back. He kisses me harder. I'm so happy I kind of start crying again. The kiss is all wet and messy.

Then_ something_ happened.

I think this means we're back together.


	4. So, we're doing this now?

**Monday**

I'm at 221B Baker Street and John is out, on holiday with his lovely Mary. It's morning, and Sherlock and I are sharing breakfast. He is in his (and my!) favorite sheet, and I in his lovely silk robe.

There's been talk of me bringing things to leave about the flat, but I know that if I bring pyjamas I may lose access to the robe, so I just keep 'forgetting'. This routine has become somewhat the norm lately and I can't complain. Sherlock is mulling over some things on his laptop and I'm just enjoying the lemon curd on my toast. He is currently in the middle of a case and is a bit upset that John has left him, but even though I've offered to accompany him, he always declines. I'm not sure if his hesitation is due to my involvement in a case a while back (and the sticky situations we found ourselves in) or if he just refuses to work with anyone but John. In any event, I've been spending a lot more time here than in my house and have fallen behind on my own deadlines.

I finish the last bit of toast and walk into Sherlock's room to change up and head home. There are only so many "I've been feeling ill" e-mails I can send out before I become poor.

"Where are you going?" The consulting detective, who moonlights as a sex god, asks.

"Home," I call out from his room while trying to pull on my skinny jeans. "I've got work to do."

It's been 18 days since we've been back on and it all seems so domestic, the only thing bringing me back to reality being the severed head in the fridge.

"You can work here." I see him standing in the doorway, looking like an ancient Greek philosopher, sheet draping in all the right places.

"I can't," I wave about, "too many distractions."

He actually looks a bit put out and I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach. The idea that I can affect this man moves me. Will he actually miss me? I let the question float around in my mind, it releases a sort of happy glow.

"I'll be at Bart's." He could have been telling me he was heading to the grocery store, or mailing a letter in the same tone.

"OK, I'll see you when I see you then." I grab my bag and pull it over my shoulder, mentally tallying how much money I have in it and if I can afford to work at the cafe today.

I walk past Sherlock and make my way for the door, stopping by the table to nip at one last corner of toast. "Bye, Sher-lock."

"Persephone," he calls out, I pause to look back at him. My God, he's gorgeous.

He walks towards me and stops a few feet from where I'm standing. "Have...a good day then," he says, awkwardly. If I hadn't seen the words come from his mouth I wouldn't have believed them.

"Um," I reply, uncomfortable with the sudden formality. "You, too." I give him a quick peck on his lips and jog down the stairs. So we're doing this, now?

I managed to fish a few pounds from the bottom of my bag and head out for a very large coffee at my corner table in my favorite cafe. On my walk I realize that since working—if you can call it working—on the Skin Deep case that my life has been very dull. Outside of Sherlock it's either work or coffee or the pub and I feel a bit anxious. I've never been one to let all the excitement in my life revolve around a man, and although this one is quite extraordinary, I don't intend to let that happen.

I'm pondering a holiday away when I absentmindedly walk directly into someone on the street.

"I'm so sorry," I turn around quickly and extend my hand. I knocked his grocery bags to the ground.

"No, my fault, really," he gets up and faces me and my stomach drops a bit.

"Oh my God, Jim. Hi. Sorry."

Before I knew that Sherlock and I would be anything, in what seems like a million years ago, I went out on an exceptionally boring date with a barista named Jim. He was really nice, and if it wasn't for a tall, handsome consulting detective bearing ice cream, I probably would have seen him again. Now that I think back, I don't think I ever returned his calls. Oh, and maybe I never showed up to his cafe again. Maybe he doesn't remember who I am?

"Posy. Hi."

He's smiling at me, with that same polite, bland smile, but there's something lurking beneath the surface that's given away in his eyes. Something that when pointed directly at me makes me feel uncomfortable.

"How are you? It's been a long time," I feign ignorance on how things were left off because I'm hoping he's too polite to bring them up. His smile turns into a small frown.

"Yes," he's looking at me right in the eyes. "I never heard from you again."

His voice is level and devoid of all the cheerfulness it held a second ago. I shift uncomfortably. "Listen, Jim, I'm sorry, I—"

"I was just dropping these off at home, I have the day off today, would you like to catch up over some tea?"

Just like that his persona changes again. His voice is light and playful, almost sing-songy in quality and his eyebrows are raised in anticipation. I might as well take the opportunity to clear the air, I really don't like leaving off with people on bad terms.

We walk a couple blocks to his flat in silence, he opens the door and lets me in. I linger in the living room as he drops the bags onto his counter and fills his kettle. The flat is extremely clean, very generic, and without many personal touches. There isn't a photograph or book in sight. It's a stark contrast to the liveliness of Baker street.

I take a seat and Jim returns with the tea. He smiles at me and starts off the inevitable.

"I thought we had a good time. I apologize if I did anything to offend you."

"Oh, Jim. I'm sorry. It was terrible of me to just drop off the face of the earth like that, I really do apologize. I did have a good time...things, just...happened."

He nodded and his smile. "You're involved with someone else. I had a feeling, I was hoping I could change that."

I think about denying it but don't see the point. "I should have been upfront with you, but to be honest I didn't think it was anything, you know? Either way, it doesn't excuse the fact that I avoided you, that's terrible of me, and I am sorry."

Jim shrugs. He holds up his cup and asks, "Friends, then?"

I meet his cup gently and nod my head, "Friends."

"You stopped getting coffee," he says with a laugh.

"To be honest, I started going to your cafe in order to avoid him. Once things worked out I just didn't have to anymore."

"Ah, so it was doomed from the beginning then. No matter, I would proudly like to say that I am no longer serving coffee anyway."

"Oh? What are you up to?"

"Working IT over at Bart's. And I even met someone there that's quite special."

"Oh, Jim, that's great." I mean it. Relief washes over me as a realize that my bad manners didn't affect him too greatly.

"Yeah, yeah. It's interesting how things always have a way of evening themselves out." He holds my gaze and I feel that eerie chemistry once again. Luckily, my mobile saves the day by chirping.

"You have to go," he says instantly, before I even get the phone out of my pocket. I take the opportunity.

"Yeah, work, you know? Jim, thank you for the tea and your understanding." I extend my hand out for a shake but he leans in and gives me a tight hug instead.

"I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other." His voice is a whisper in my ear, causing a shiver to run down my spine. He pulls away and adds, "Maybe we could double date or something? You have my number, right?"

"Absolutely." I grab my bag and open the door, waving him goodbye as I take the stairs, two at a time, back onto the street.

Jim is fucking creepy.


	5. And It's Quite Frightening

**Monday (night)**

I completely overestimated the amount of work I had to do. Mostly e-mails with minor changes, a few quotes to send out, and a quick mockup for a pamphlet layout. Once I reply to all of them it's barely dinnertime and I'm free as a bird.

I instinctively want to pay Sherlock a visit at Bart's but decide against it. I've never been a clingy girlfriend and dead people weird me out. Besides, now knowing that Jim works there I'm a bit hesitant to run into him. Instead I decide to order another cup of tea and look up holiday ideas. Holiday on my own. Time to get inspired for new projects. I haven't created anything off the computer in ages and could use a healthy dose of inspiration.

I could do somewhere local or maybe Scotland. Potentially France. Actually France sounds amazing. Never one for labored decisions I book it. I'm ecstatic and slightly nervous at the same time. I wonder if Sherlock will mind that I'm going alone? Maybe it will be nice to have him miss me a bit.

By the time my tea is empty and my credit card is maxed, the cafe is closing shop. I check my mobile to see if I've missed any messages and I haven't. Sherlock angry that I'm traveling without him? More like he'll be relieved.

**Sunday**

I'm at 221B, John is back, and the dynamic duo are wrapping up a case. I am here, laying on the couch with my laptop across my lap, completely forgotten. I could die here and no one would notice. Maybe Mrs. Hudson when she's up to do her (non)housekeeping.

A lot has happened in the past week. For a quick recap, a bank called in a favor about some vandalism or something and that led to a goose chase throughout the city that ended in a stand off with some kind of Chinese crime syndicate. I would say it was all nothing out of the ordinary around here except the standoff happened while we all went out to a circus/theater show and John's girlfriend Mary may have been taken hostage. There was a lot of tension that amounted to John and Mary taking a bit of a break in their relationship.

That break, however, has led to John being around a lot more often and the two boys are in their zone. I love to see them together, but also miss having Sherlock's attention. You have to be reasonable, it's hard for me to get any attention to begin with. I may have to schedule a lunch date with Mary to see if I can help smooth things over.

In other news, I'm leaving for France in a couple days and I have yet to tell Sherlock about it. I might be a bit nervous. I'm thinking of cornering him once they finish whatever they're working on, if that ever happens. Through the corner of my eye I can see movement, both Sherlock and John are putting on their coats.

"Leaving me?" I get up and make to get my own coat.

"Ah, Persephone, just a quick trip to Bart's, no need for you to join." He wraps the scarf around his neck, oblivious to the murderous look I'm sending his way. John catches it, though.

"I'll wait for you outside, Sherlock. I need to chat with Mrs. Hudson about something."

Sherlock nods and I let John know I appreciate his gesture. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He's putting on his coat and grabbing his things off the table, shoving his mobile into the deep wool pocket.

"I had wanted to talk to you, maybe I can tag along—"

"No. Could be dangerous—"

"I'm not afraid...and seriously, I have to tell you something."

He looks up expectantly, I can hear a clock ticking in my mind, the few precious seconds I have before I lose his attention.

"Maybe you could go to Bart's in the morning?"

"We'll talk when I get back. The timing, Persephone, really is quite poor."

I give up. "Later then." I turn on my heel and plop back onto the couch. I don't have to look up to know he's gone. I pull up the details of my trip on the computer, wishing I could leave sooner, ready for the time alone where I don't have to play second fiddle to the man I'm in love with.

Wait. What? Did I just admit that I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes? I think...I did...I do...

And it's quite frightening.

I call up my hotel and ask the concierge if there are any vacancies a day early and confirm it with my flight. For less than a hundred pounds I buy myself an extra day of holiday and rationalize that it's for my sanity. I've been around him for so long that I think I'm in love with him. I am in love with him. I need croissants.

I grab everything but my computer and shove it into my bag. If I'm going to make the early flight I have to be at the airport in under a couple hours. Dropping my laptop on his bed, I leave the window open to my flight detail and scribble a note on the desktop.

_Couldn't wait till later._


End file.
